


No Middle Ground

by Canarii



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games, Other, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canarii/pseuds/Canarii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of Robert’s Rebellion saw King Aerys dead and Rhaegar alive to take the throne. In order to keep the peace, and acknowledging his father’s wrongs, Rhaegar pardoned the rebel houses on the conditions that they bent the knee and swore fealty to the Iron Throne. Jaime the Kingslayer was stripped of his knighthood and his sword hand as punishment.</p>
<p>Rhaegar was a good king, and ruled successfully for seventeen years. In that time, his heir, Aegon was lost in childhood to a spring sickness. Toward the end of his reign, no more living children had been born to Elia, and Rhaenys was long since married to Quentyn Martell of Dorne, but had only borne daughters. Rhaegar died, and his younger brother, Viserys, took the throne.</p>
<p>As his first royal decree Viserys set to punish the houses who had risen up against the Iron Throne, or even those he suspected of plotting to do so. He prepared for great games…in which all children of the houses between the ages of ten and eighteen would be taken to compete in an arena. One would be allowed to come out alive. The victor guaranteed a full pardon for their house, and the losers, well; the losers would already have their punishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ned Stark's face is grey and taunt with silent fury as Robb and Jon were guided, almost pushed towards the platform. Why didn't he do something? Say something? Fight for his sons? But young as she is, Arya knows why. All of this, these proposed...games were the final punishment for a rebellion their father fought in before any of them were born. A show of power. The last act of a mad and dying king.  
She knows this, but she doesn't understand. And she sees Jon glance back uncertainly, and his eyes catch hers.  
Robert Baratheon's oldest son has joined them at the platform. It's cruel, and it's terrible, to escentially deprive a house of it's first born son. That part makes sense. But Jon, as much as Arya loved him, was a bastard. He had no claim as heir of Winterfell, so what purpose would that-

  
It starts to make sense when a gold cloak pushes through the crowd, and grabs Sansa by the wrist. It's so sudden, and so unexpected, that the first result is all out panic. Their mother lunges forward to protect her oldest daughter, but Sansa's already halfway to the platform, dragged by two guards. More goldcloaks approach, their intention clear. Catelyn Stark screams obscenities and clutches Bran and Rickon to her skirts, trying to cover her youngest with her cloak, protect them.

  
And then Arya's in the air, cheek pressed to her father's shoulder as he snatches her from where she had stood frozen in the crowd. He's turning away from the platform, holding her up with one strong arm and trying to free Ice with his other.

  
She hears the impact as the hilt of a sword makes contact with Ned's skull. He drops to his knees in the chaos, conscious, but stunned, gripping Arya's small form with a bruising force. But it's not enough. A mass of goldcloaks fall on them, and she thinks she hears her own voice screaming as she's dragged from her father's arms.

 

***

It's the first kill she actually witnesses.

  
Arya was at the melee at the cornacopia, that was true, but she was there and gone before most of the bloodbath had gone down. The smallest and the quickest, she'd dashed ahead of the pack, and snatched up the first item she could find that wouldn't weigh her down, a knife about the length of her hand. And then she was gone, heeding Robert's warning despite instinct, and breaking for the woods while her competittors met each other's bodies with wood and steel and fists.  
Five of them had died that day, she'd counted the fires lit on the ridge that night. But Arya had been long gone by then.

  
This was different.

  
A flock of birds had erupted from the trees at the other end of the meadow she'd been examining for potential breakfast. A dark scattering cloud, Arya had known what that had meant, and was already twice a man's height up the tree when the first girl burst into the clearing.

  
It was obvious from the start she was not accustomed to running, or much physical activity at all. Her pace was flagged, breathing harsh and feet clumsy. But it made sense, Jeyne Poole had done little in her short life save sit and look pretty, all that was expected of noble daughters.

  
Her pursuer is sharp on her heels. Although not much taller, perhaps even more slight, the superior strength in Asha Greyjoy's limbs were apparant from her first bound into sight. Arya thinks she should look away, already knowing what is about to play out before her. Jeyne stumbles, crashing to her knees in the grass with an impact that brings even more tears to her eyes.  
It only takes one swing, and then the Iron Island girl's axe cleaves her. Yes, cleaves. That's the only word for it. Cut can't begin to describe the fluidity with which the wickedly sharp blade slices through the meat in the crook of Jeyne's shoulder, right through her collarbone and deep into something wet and vital that gurgled. It seems wrong, somehow. To see it pass so easily into her, like she's made of something soft and warm, instead of the ice and crag a Northerner should.

  
The axe is wrenched free, splattering it's owner with thick red blood that sprays from the wound. Jeyne slides to the ground with an agonized gurgle, and her killer quickly wipes the axeblade on the hem of her tunic, dark eyes darting around her suspiciously. And rightfully so, she's exposed in the open. If Arya had a bow, and the strength to draw it, she could have taken Asha through the eye at this distance.  
Not even checking her kill, the Greyjoy girl makes a beeline for the trees, and disappears with a rustle of brush.

  
Six dead. Arya thinks. But that's not right, not yet. Because Jeyne is twitching, weakly convulsing on the ground. Red spray spurts and spreads from the fountainous wound between her neck and shoulder. She's ten, maybe twelve paces away, choking and shuddering horribly in the grass.

  
Arya is frozen, pinned by her tree by a force like fear, a grey brown squirrel blending in against the bark.

  
The sound of life bubbling out of both the dying girl's mouth and throat is the only sound in the world, it seems. The birds have fallen silent, and Arya realizes she's holding her own breath. Her hands are cramping as the minutes tick on, and she realizes she's gripping the handle of her knife so hard her knucles have gone bone white.

  
And she feels it's weight in her small hand, hears the dying girl in the meadow, and thinks for a minute that she can do it. Shimmy down the tree, cross the grass and slit what was left of Jeyne Poole's throat.

Mercy.

  
But she can't move, not until the sounds finally cease and all that's left is a crumpled bloody shape in the grass, and night falling.

 

***

  
Arya gnaws steadily at the stalk in her hand. It's some kind of pulpy root she can't remember the name of. The outside is tough, fibrous, and the inside seems to explode into chalk in her mouth. But it's food, meager as it is.

  
She sent a silent thanks to Jory, who'd silenty slipped her out into the Godswood with the boys on the day they'd been taught their basic lessons on plant lore. If she ever got out of here she'd thank him in person. Her stomach growled, hollow and painful . Thin a girl as she was naturally, she was still a child of a noble house, and was not accustomed to starvation.

  
The woods they'd been left in seemed oddly empty of game. In her days, week? Since the games had begun, Arya hadn't spotted anything much larger than a rabbit scurring between the trees. She'd killed a songbird with a stick, after lying in wait for over an hour. It was a small, but plump bird, that was just on it's way back out of it's nest.

  
She'd eaten it raw, no fire available to her for cooking, half choking on down and small bones in her haste. She'd stripped it to feather and bone in no time, and rejuvinated by the fresh meat, scampered up the tree to the bird's nest, in hopes of eggs.

  
There were none, but rather six tiny chicks, featherless and newly hatched. They were so pink and raw looking, little heads twisting too and fro at the sound of her arrival, like some abnormal skinned creature . Her stomach churned at the prospect, but the sensation reminded her of the gnawing pain of hunger, and in quick movements, she silently snapped six little necks.

  
The baby birds hadn't lasted long either, almost no meat on their threadlike bones, and featherless, went down easier than their mother. Arya wiped her mouth subconsciously when she'd finished her meal, although there was no one to see the rouged stain around her lips and teeth. She knows it's wrong somehow, that she should be disgusted, or retch, but the taste of a fresh kill bloody in her jaws is somehow not entirely unfamiliar a sensation.

  
That had been two days ago, and she was once again desperate for food. Twice in the last few days had the crashing of some larger competitor sent her scurrying into a thicket or hole like a ittle mouse. She was small, and quiet, and no one had found her. And good thing too, because with nothing but her short dagger and wits to arm her she was little match for some of the older, larger hunters in these woods.  
In fact, other than witnessing the slaying of Jeyne Poole, Arya hadn't actually seen anyone else since the start of the games. Maybe if she was lucky they'd all kill each other off, making her the winner by default. But as soon as the though crosses her mind she dismisses it. It's a cowardly though, and besides, that would mean Jon and Robb and even Sansa would al be dead. If Jon wasn't dead already, that was. And part of her thinks he must be, why else would he have not found her at their meeting place? He would never have abandoned her if he had breath.

  
She doesn't want to think about it, and spits out the rest of the root. The end is too dry and shriveled to chew. And with the cessation of the sound of her jaws grinding the pulp soft, she hears what she'd missed.  
Footsteps. Careful, almost silent. But footsteps. Her eyes darted around her. Where to run? The trees grew denser to the north, harder for her to be followed into. But the hills were also steep, one false step and she'd tumble down to her pursuor's feet. East lay a thin stream, not deep enough to swim. Westward lay the meadow where she was sure Jeyne's body still lay, being picked clean by animals. And south? South was-

  
Her only chance, as a twig snapped. Arya ran.

  
Swift as a deer through the brush, no, not a deer. Swift as a wolf, leaping over fallen branches and rocks, as steady on the uneven ground as if she was flying on four legs instead of two.  
The trees thin out quickly, giveing way to sparser vegetation and earth that has seen the worst of the sun. What kind of wolf am I, she thinks darkly to herself, over the beating of her heart. That runs like a rabbit instead of fighting. What kind of wolf is the hunted, and not the hunter?

  
A young one, far from her pack, some wisdom within her answers herself.

  
Which is precisely when the ground gives way beneath her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait, life and a lack of muse has kept me busy. The next few sections will be shorter but coming along in quick succession, hopefully.

She comes too after a minute or an hour, cradled in the thorny arms of the bramble patch that had halted her descent down the rocky hillside. She feels the spines of the plant biting into her skin, piercing through clothing to draw fine needlepricks of blood. She’s afraid to move, for fear of driving the points in further by struggling. This stillness saves her life.

Through the ache and haze of the fall, she can hear voices from above on the ridge, snippets of conversation.

“…finish off”, “….done for…” She lies still in the shale, listening through the sound of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. An argument? Her cheek feels raw and wet where it lies against the rocky earth. But they’re gone, out of earshot by the time she realizes that she recognizes them. From training, the two Frey boys. The ones who had the same name.

Her first coherent thought is anger. How could she have misjudged the slope of the hillside? Lost her footing at such a crucial moment. Mistakes were death out here. Not today. She rolled sharply out of the thorn bush, barely feeling the barbs tear free of fabric and flesh because the movement awakened much greater pain.

She bites down hard, as the throb in her temple sends stars before her eyes. But even that pales in comparison to the sensation that rips up her left leg as she goes to move it.

She pushes herself up on her arms, trying to assess the damage. Her trouser leg is torn open to the knee, and the wound itself is too dirtied with dust and grime and blood to show it’s severity. Still, from the pain alone she can tell a sizable gash on her calf has been opened up by a sharp stone. She tries to move it again, and a gasp escapes her lips.

Next, she reaches up gingerly and probes the burning side of her face, her cheek is roughly scraped, and imbedded with small bits of shale and sand. There’s a lump rising on her temple already, and her scalp is sticky with blood. Her cut and dirtied hands go next to her waist, finding happily that her knife had neither been torn free in the fall, nor found it’s way between her ribs. She made a note to be more careful with it

Head still swimming, she forced herself to her feet, carefully putting a small degree of weight on her injured leg. Black explodes before her eyes, and she sways. It hurts more than anything she can remember in her short life. And for a moment the panic overtakes her.  
She can’t climb, or run like this. With no way to treat the wound she’ll die down here, in this horrible place, and rot for the crows, just like Jeyne-

No, she decides, leaning more heavily on her injured leg and gritting her teeth. Fear cuts deeper than swords, or stone, she reminds herself. She was alive, and she could walk. That was enough. She was a Stark of Winterfell and she would not give in. 

 

Arya had never had to tie a bandage before, and it became quickly clear she wasn't any good at it. The strip she'd torn off her already too-long sleeve was becoming progressively more mangled the more she attempted to bind it around her leg. Pain and sudden cold from the oncoming night were making her fingers clumsy, and she struggled with the knot. On the fourth try she gave up, leaving the messy dirtied cloth wound around her calf, at least partially protecting injury. She could tell now, that that gash wasn't overly deep, let alone life threatening, but it was exquisitely painful to walk on and had bled quite a lot over the course of the day. 

Her head still ached dully, and the scabbing skin on her face felt tight and pulled as she grimaced in frustration. She knew she needed to clean the wounds, but in her flight from the Freys she'd wandered far from the stream she's been following, and had yet to rediscover it. 

Her leg hurt too much to climb, and she'd finally just settled down in a small, dark hollow to spend the night. It was thick with brush and shadow, and the density of the trees would discourage any larger pursuers. At least she hoped dearly it would. She propped herself up against a large boulder, exhausted but not daring to truly sleep. The hilt of her knife lay knotted in her hand, ready at her side.

She was only beginning to drift off to darkness when the crackling of brush underfoot shook her from the promise of slumber. She rolled to her front, biting back a hiss of pain as the movement jarred her wounds. Knife at the ready to defend herself against the towering figure with the hammer in it's hand-

It never fell. 

Arya opened her eyes, only realizing now that she'd closed them at the last instant, she blinked up with suspicion and disbelief at the tall boy in front of her. He was one of the older ones, more like Jon or Robb in stature than her. And strong, she'd noticed in training, strong in arm and shoulder. More than strong enough to bring that hammer down with the kind of force that could crush her skull, but he didn't.

Solemn blue eyes looked down at her, stony and oddly familiar. She brandished her knife in front of her, with an arm she found shaking from weakness and strain. It was not nearly as threatening as she'd hoped. The boy let loose a breath, and wordless turned to leave.

“What's wrong with you?” Arya snapped, unwisely, “Why won't you fight?”

“I'm not going to kill a little girl”, the boy tossed back, not even looking back at her, “Keep yourself better hidden next time.”

This spurred something in her, something cold and sharp of tooth, beyond the exhaustion and the pain. She wasn't a little girl, and she wasn't so easy to kill. She was a Stark, she was a wolf, and would not be written off so easily. 

Somehow she got to her feet, and made the few stumbling bounds it took to close the distance before she launched herself at his legs. For once her size was an advantage, and his knees buckles as she collided into him. The struggle was brief, and he was caught off guard by the attack long enough to find himself o his back with the small,pale creature sitting on his chest.

“I'm not little”, Arya hissed, knife at his throat. The boy laughed.

And the sound is so out of place and so unfamiliar at this point that it leaves her frozen and confused. He bats the knife out of her hands all too easily, and rolls her off of him. 

Arya's too tired to attempt another attack, and lies motionless in the brush, catching her breath as her leg throbs. 

“I take that back”, the boy says, “You're a little wildcat”, he laughs again, and Arya wants to hit him for finding levity in their situation. He sits up, and glances at the sigil embroidered underneath all the dirt on her tunic, “Or a she-wolf”, he corrects. She did likewise, taking in the golden stag on his garment.

“You're the Baratheon bastard”, she blurted out. It wasn't an insult, or meant unkindly. Lord Robert had had two of them, both older than his trueborn children, and had taken them into his house much like Arya's own father had with Jon. It wasn't a greatly admired thing to do, but perhaps he had thought the family name could hardly be disgraced more after his ill fated rebellion. The elder bastard was a girl, Arya remembered dully, too old to be drawn into this tournament of cruelty. This must be the boy.

“Yes”, the bastard boy said coldly back. 

“...My brother's a bastard”, Arya said back, dumbly, suddenly not knowing what to say in response to his cool demeaner. Greater still, not nowing what to say in such a calm tone to someone who by rights should have been claiming her life. 

“I know”, the boy said back, also seeming to be troubled by the interaction. Arya bit down thoughts of Jon, because in her heart, she thought he must be dead. Dead and gone and for the crows on the first day, otherwise he surely would have met her, surely would have honoured his promise to reunite in the place of their choosing in this arena. She wondered who had cut him down, and if she would meet them. For a second, a horrid thought came to her, and her eyes fell on the great hammer in the strong Baratheon boy's hand. But it was bloodless, and she pushed such thoughts aside. 

She struggled to rise to her feet, to pick a path away from this boy before he changed his mind, or their conversation brought new faces from the wood. Even as she rose to her less than formidable height, the world spun and her injured leg tried to buckle under her. She caught herself, steadied on a stone, but when she looked up and met the cool blue eyes before her, she knew he had seen.

The look in them was indeciphorable, calculating a wounded animal in a trap. Without mind her hand crept closer to the knife at her belt, but the boy sighed, and broke his gaze. 

“Sit”, he said, “That leg needs to be bandaged properly”, he said, moving towards her. She began to protest, voice full of doubt and questions and fear but a strong hand on her should pushed her almost effortlessly down.

She wanted to run to move away, to push him or hit him or anything, but was frozen with confusion and slowed by blood lost and could do nothing. Nothing but sit in the loam and watch the odd boy begin to unwrap her clumsy attempts at a bandage over her gashed calf. 

“What do you know about wounds?” She demanded, looking him over, no Maester's apprentice, this one. Something that may have been a laugh under gentler winds sounded,

“I have a young brother, and sister”, he said, before correcting himself, “half brother and sister, cleaning cuts and scrapes is no new thing.”

And there it was again, that pang in her chest that made her think of home, of Robb and Jon on a rainsoaked day. Robb cleaning mud from a mewling Sansa's face where Arya's aim had struck true, and Jon dabbing gently at the open skin on her knee where she'd fallen on a rock while fleeing her sister's wrath. Both boys laughing the whole time, each with a wet, unhappy girl in their arms. Winterfell. She wanted to go home. 

But you can't go home, Arya thought. Not truly, only as bones wrapped in banner if you don't win. So she had to win, had to avenge her siblings' assured deaths, had to survive. And that would mean killing them all. Even the bastard boy with the cool eyes who cleaned the drying blood from her wound in slow sure strokes.


End file.
